Page 63 of The Duke of a Thousand Desires

She balanced one leg on a footstool to put on her stockings. He came up behind her to help her complete the task, letting her balance against his shoulder. He steeled himself not to react to the sway of her soft bottom against his groin. Her satiny curves made him hard again.

“Thank you,” she whispered, leaning her head back on his chest.

He exhaled, his body fiercely responding to hers, his thoughts in a knot. Broken trust would not easily mend. Had he waited too long? “How can we know each other too well?” he asked.

“Why don’t we go upstairs to finish our conversation?” she suggested with a mischievous smile.

He straightened with a nod of agreement only to pull around at the rattle of wheels in the street. Was he to be granted a reprieve from his confession? “That sounds like a rather large carriage for this hour.”

“And it’s stopped in front of the house.”

“Go through the side door to the other staircase to be safe,” he said quietly.

The front door opened. Hushed voices filtered through the hall. Simon brushed around her and seized the gun he had set on top of the pianoforte.

“Someone is breaking in,” she whispered, at his heels. “I’m not about to leave you by yourself to face intruders who are this brazen.”

“For God’s sake,” he said, his jaw set. “Do as I ask.”

A heavy object thudded outside the door. For all Simon could discern, a dead body had fallen. He strode forth, uncaring that his cravat dangled like a noose from his neck. He was more alarmed that Ravenna had made no effort to escape, although she had taken the precaution of pulling the bell cord to summon help from the servants’ hall.

This measure proved unnecessary. As Simon charged into the hall to tackle the two figures skulking by the door, his gray-haired butler hastened to the scene from his quarters. Evidently the man had been roused from bed. His nightshirt was bunched into his breeches. He carried a tallow stub in one hand, a long-barreled pistol in the other. He was more likely to set the house on fire than to scare off burglars.

Simon swore under his breath and lowered his own weapon. “Timpkins,” he said to the other man present, recognizing his estate manager in a tall black hat and long coat. “You bonehead. What are you doing here this time of night?”

“Returning from our honeymoon.”

Isolde hung back from the grinning young man, quite lovely in one of Ravenna’s traveling gowns and hooded royal-blue silk cloak. “Your grace might have forgotten,” she said in a weary but apologetic voice. “Timpkins, I told you we should have sent word ahead as we neared London.”

Ravenna ventured into the hall. “This is what I forgot to tell you, Simon,” she said sheepishly.

“Couldn’t you have planned an earlier arrival?” he demanded of Timpkins. “It’s ungodly late to be on the road.”

“One of the horses pulled up lame, your grace,” Timpkins said. “We’d have been here hours ago if not for that.”

Simon scowled. “It is all well and good for you to relish your adventure, but I never expected you to place yourselves in such a vulnerable position. You should have stayed the night at a coaching inn.”

“Miss Fychan wouldn’t hear of it,” Timpkins said. “She informed me that the honeymoon was over and cohabitation in public places was inappropriate.”

What could Simon say to this? It wasn’t fair to chastise a young couple who had gamely put their lives at risk so that he and Ravenna could enjoy a fortnight of uninterrupted pleasures. Nor could he find fault with Isolde for defending her virtue -- not when the young maid so resembled his wife that she could have claimed to be a Boscastle cousin. At least in the darkness of the vestibule.

It would have been on Simon’s head had harm come their way.

“I am relieved that you’re home and grateful for your service,” he said at last. “I suggest, however, that we wait until tomorrow to discuss any estate matters. All went well?”

Timpkins cast Isolde an impudent look. “Yes, your grace. Our time together was sweet, but, alas, too short.”

“I was inquiring about your physical safety, Timpkins, not your personal fancies.”

“There was a prowler on the grounds near the family vaults, your grace,” Isolde said with a chagrined glance at the steward. “Mr. Timpkins was quite brave in giving him chase, but the man wasn’t apprehended.”

“If he existed,” Timpkins said with a snort of doubt.

“He was spotted before daybreak by the head maid,” Isolde said. “For all we know he may indeed have been a poacher or even a drift of mist. This was the only unusual incident, conduct of present company excluded, that occurred during our sojourn.”